We Go On Pretending
by BregoArodShadowfax
Summary: We go on pretending stories like ours have happy endings. Mentioned past Mark/Roger, but really only friendship within the fic. Pre-RENT, post-April.


**Back with my second Rent-fic! I know the idea's probably been done a million times, but I wanted to give my own imaginings of the aftermath of April's death. Inevitably, there are mentions of past Mark/Roger interactions, but in the present-time there's only friendship between them. I'm writing in present tense again, which I really like because it gives the story a more 'real' feeling, but there will probably inevitably be tense errors no matter how many times I proofread, so I apologize in advance. Other than that, enjoy! And I love reviews, so don't be shy :D **

**Disclaimer: RENT is most certainly not mine, and this story is for entertainment purposes only.**

**We Go On Pretending**

_You and I; we've seen it all_

_Been down this road before[…]_

_But we go on pretending_

_Stories like ours have happy endings._

It's amazing how long the walk from the clinic feels when he's honestly trying to get somewhere. Admittedly, he had dawdled a bit in front of the doors, staring at the piece of paper in his hand as if the words were magically going to change, but right now the relatively short twenty-minute stroll seemed more like a marathon.

And it's cold, which is hardly making anything move any faster. Normally by this time of year, almost the middle of April, spring already has a firm hold on New York City, but there's more snow on the ground then there had been in December and quite frankly he's sick of having to wear his old plaid coat in the house just to keep warm.

He glances again at the sheet of pristine white paper, almost unwilling to fold it, but it looks rather stupid to walk down the street holding a piece of paper in front of him like it holds the answer to life itself, so he stuffs it in his pocket, wraps his scarf tighter around his neck, and hunkers down inside his coat in order to avoid the wind.

It doesn't help, but he knows that as long as he keeps moving he'll eventually get to the loft, and once he turns his mind to other things (like how he'd for once left his camera at home; for once he'd realized that, if the news was poor, there would be nothing to film). He wasn't really shy about filming; any one of his friends would gladly tell you that if you asked, but ever since that day…just barely two weeks ago, really, he's become paranoid about walking through doorways with his camera rolling.

It's almost…comical, really; and anyone else would call him odd about it. But even though he'll never reveal the truth (or, at least, he knows he won't be revealing it in the near future), he still won't walk through doorways with his camera rolling.

And perhaps it's ironic, he thinks, that out of all the days to choose she picked April Fools to end it. But the fact remains that she'd been in the washroom an awful long time, and he'd decided that she was obviously planning some sort of prank, so he'd pushed through the door with his camera, not even thinking about anything else.

Well, she'd fooled them, all right. Fooled them all into thinking everything was fine until they found her body in the bathtub, and he's still thankful that April was a relatively neat girl and kept the scene contained instead of bleeding all over the bathroom. And maybe it's a horrible and shallow thing to think, but he barely held it together as it was; April _was _his friend, no matter how much he disapproved of her lifestyle choices.

He blinks and looks up, now surprised that he's reached the loft so quickly, and sighs as he climbs the stairs. It's eerily silent in the old building, as it always is in the daytime (he swears all the tenants are vampires; they honestly don't come out until after nightfall), and he reaches the door and wonders what exactly he'll find on the other side.

Benny won't be there; he never is, anymore, and now that he's announced his engagement to Alison (Roger still calls her 'Muffy,' but that's because Roger's Roger, after all) he'll inevitably be around even less; Collins has some temporary teaching gig…somewhere; he flits around so much sometimes it's hard to keep track of where he's at; and Maureen will be…out.

He knows well enough that 'out' means 'in some other man's bed,' and Roger calls him a sucker for it, but she's the only good thing in his life right now and even if that means having to deal with her flirtatious nature he'll gladly take it.

Pulling the door open, he steps into the bright loft, thankful for once that their giant floor-to-ceiling windows don't have blinds, or else he'd bet his camera that they'd be drawn tight. Well, _he _certainly isn't going to become vampiric, no matter what the rest of the apartment block thinks.

"Rog?" he calls, unwinding his scarf and deciding that maybe the loft's warm enough to just wear a sweater in as he removes his jacket as well. "Roger? You home?"

"Where else would I be?"

And he's reminded of a dragon or an ogre in those old tales he read a child,: the mythical creature that stays in its lair and only sticks its head out to yell at people for making too much noise or coming too close.

"Did you take your AZT?"

He cringes as he says the words; they've become far too commonplace in the last few days, and while he's fairly sure that both he and Roger immediately believed April when they saw the cryptic post-it note, of course the other man still got tested, and it didn't take long for the results to come back positive.

The opposite to the results he's now taken out of his jacket pocket, and he sets the paper on the table, folding out the creases it's acquired on the walk back. He wanders over to his room to check his camera, relieved to find it unharmed (not that he thinks Roger will purposely ruin it, but with the other man's current mental state…), before heading into the bathroom.

It's clean, now, thanks mostly to Maureen, who hadn't known April quite as well and had rather admirably insisted that she clean while the boys composed themselves. Roger had spent the entire night staring at nothing, mumbling about 'never playing anything again, how can I, my Muse is gone,' and generally making him paranoid that if he went to sleep he'd find a wannabe rocker dead in the tub come morning.

He almost believes, now, that Roger will never take that path, but it doesn't mean he's any safer than he was. Especially since he only has enough smack left for a couple of days at most; he's not making any money playing gigs anymore, and while Collins has agreed to pay for the AZT thus far, it won't be for forever. Roger won't leave the loft, after all, and now he's afraid that if the noticeably taller and stronger man asks him to buy some, he won't be able to resist.

"Yes, _Mom," _came the altogether too sarcastic voice from the depths of Roger's bedroom, and he can hear it through the bathroom door as he washes his hands and comes into the kitchen, surprised to see a rather pitiful looking creature staring at the piece of paper on the table until he's suddenly pinned against the kitchen counter, still not strong enough to fight Roger off even now.

His mouth opens and closes rather humorously, but he doesn't make any sound, just point with a shaking hand to the table, his bright green eyes filled with more fire than the other man's seen since April died, and in all actuality since a long time before as well; Roger was high nearly all the time, and the clouded appearance of his eyes gave him away well before anything else.

Finally he manages to force out, "Mark…what the he…"

"Halloween," Mark blurts, wanting to get this over with as quickly as possible. The fact that Roger isn't high probably means he's realized his meagre supply of heroin is almost gone, but it's safe to say he'll shoot up after this conversation is over. Roger can't really handle stress well; either he'll run or he'll get high, and since he physically can't seem to set foot outside of the door (Mark thinks it's strange: after all, would _you _want to be eternally bound to the place your girlfriend killed herself in?) it's going to be the second one.

"What?" Roger looks confused, his grip on Mark's collar loosening the slightest bit. "What does Halloween have to do with…"

Mark isn't surprised that Roger can't remember; heck, most of the time Roger can't remember his own name, and Mark's willing to bet both of them were a little out of it that night, although the songwriter seemed lucid enough after the fact.

But then, Mark thinks, he probably wasn't. Because there was no way on earth a completely sober Roger would have stayed until morning, but…

"Mark, what _happened _on Halloween?" Roger's voice begins to get a hint of a growl in it, a sure sign that he's worked up.

"You don't remember? You'd seen…" and Mark snaps his mouth shut.

"April. You can say her…say it, Mark," he prompts, almost pleading, and Mark is, as always, only too willing to oblige him.

"…April and your dealer heading somewhere together." It was no secret that when things were tight April would perform…certain favours just to get the heroin. As far as Mark knows, Roger never went so far as to stoop to that, but somehow he won't be entirely surprised if he's proven wrong. "And Maureen was…"

"Cheating with some guy or other, yeah?"

"And we were drunk, and alone, and lonely and…"

Roger's eyes widen in recognition. "Mark, you…" his voice cracks. "You…we…tell me we…"

"We slept together, Rog," Mark keeps his tone neutral. "I'm not surprised you don't remember, but I was sober enough by the time it ended."

And now Roger looks about ready to cry, because he _gets _it, and Mark is almost happy. He's been an emotional stone since April's funeral, and while Mark is usually the one to keep his tears to himself, Roger cries much more than his tough-guy image would suggest.

"Mark? Mark, what's it say?" he sounds frantic now, unable to even look at the paper himself, and Mark can see why. If Roger knew that he'd given his best friend a death sentence all because of a drunken mistake, he'd never forgive himself. And while Mark is forced to admit to himself that yes, his best friend _is _dying, somehow knowing Collins and seeing his absolutely indomitable spirit lessens the hurt. Yes, Roger's going to die, there's no getting around it. But it won't be today. And, if Mark has anything to say about it, not for a darn long time. "Mark? Please, answer me, what's…"

"I'm negative, Roger," he says clearly, flinching when Roger lets out a sob and grabs him tightly, causing the counter to dig into his back.

"Oh, thank God, Mark, I don't know what I would have…what I'd…thank God," he babbles, one hand almost convulsively stroking at Mark's short blonde hair while the other is around his waist. Mark feels tears begin to form in his own eyes and decides spontaneously that now it's okay to break the façade of indifference he's put up and hug Roger just as tightly, happy beyond words that the other man is _feeling _again.

And it's worth it, even if it meant almost having a death sentence over his own head. In fact, he's quite sure that he would have told Roger it was negative even if it would have been a lie.

000

He won't be able to tell you later how they made it into his bedroom, two grown men clinging to each other and crying like children, but now he's laying beside Roger on his bed, still holding onto the guitarist as Roger sighs, looking almost at peace.

Mark knows it won't last long, but he'll take what he can get. He's horribly thankful that Roger isn't weirded out by the whole sex thing, although he figures the only reason he would have gone alone with it, betrayed and lonely or not, would be because the relationship they have is too strong to be broken by something like that.

He loves Roger, of course he does, but it's not a love born out of lust, although Roger _is _undeniably attractive. And while he'll be the first to admit that what they'd done that night was…enjoyable, that doesn't mean he wants it to be a full-time thing.

No, it's far better if they stay best friends, all things considered.

"Mark?"

"Thought you were asleep," Mark takes his glasses off and rubs his eyes, yawning.

"Not quite," Roger has an arm draped around Mark's waist and he pulls himself closer, using Mark's outstretched arm as a pillow. "I just…how come you never told me you got tested?"

"You have enough on your plate right now, Rog," Mark says simply, combing his fingers through Roger's already overgrown hair. The bleach is starting to fade and the brown roots are showing through, but Roger doesn't seem to care. "I didn't want to worry you."

"So you think just springing it on me like this is…" he stops, obviously holding his anger back, before reaching to gently touch Mark's cheek with still-callused fingertips. "What would you have done? If it were positive?" he whispers, as if saying the words would make it true.

"I wouldn't have blamed you," Mark replies immediately, knowing that Roger needs to hear it even as the other opens his mouth to argue. "Listen, Rog: I know better. I _know _well enough to use protection no matter what, and I chose not to."

"I…"

"Roger, you're not exactly the poster child for safe sex, okay?" Mark says wryly, causing Roger to roll his eyes. "I should have known better, and I didn't. But that's beside the point: I'm just…I don't want to say I'm happy I don't have it, because you…"

"Hey, I deserved what I got." Roger's withdrawing again, and Mark abruptly changes the subject. Or tries to, until he realizes he has nothing to say that won't bring up memories of _something_.

So they're quiet, and Mark's eyes slip closed as he listens to Roger's steady breathing. His arm is going numb, but he's too comfortable to move it right now.

"I'm almost out of smack."

"I know," Mark replies, because what else can he say?"

"I'm going to use the rest of it, and then I'm going to stop."

Mark blinks his eyes open. This is a new one. Never in a million years would he have imagined Roger actually volunteering to quit the drugs. "Why?"

"They ruined my life, Mark," Roger says emphatically. "But I still have a choice. I don't want to live my life as a worthless junkie. You've seen where it got me," he snorts. "I want to make you proud, Mark. You're…you're the one thing I've got left."

"Roger…"

"It's true. I'm…I know it won't be easy, and I won't ask you to stay here if I…if it gets too bad, but I want to know if you…if you'll help me?" he looks at Mark, hope and a bit of fear in his expression, and Mark laughs quietly and pulls him closer.

"Of course I will. I'm not leaving, Roger; I won't, no matter how tough this gets. We'll get through it together, alright?" Mark's prouder of Roger than he could ever say, and he knows as well as the other man what the risks are: Roger's going to walk right into the fire, and Mark's going to do whatever he can to make it sure he gets through it alive and as unscathed as he can be. "You're my best friend, you know that."

"Best friends who occasionally sleep together?" Roger chuckles, a tiny hint of his normally sarcastic humor showing through, and Mark swats his hair. "Alright, alright."

"You didn't even _remember!" _

"I do now," Roger assures him. "I'd probably blocked it out of my mind or put it off as being just a hallucination from the drugs, but I _do _remember, Mark, and…"

"If you tell me you're sorry, I'll kick you," Mark mutters. "It was good. It's not going to happen again, but it was good."

"Yeah," Roger closes his eyes and holds Mark tight. "It was."

There's silence again, and Mark's almost asleep once more before…

"Mark?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you."

"I'm always here for you, Rog," he murmurs sleepily. "I promise."

Roger smiles, falling asleep moments later, and Mark keeps his eyes open just long enough to make sure the other man isn't going to leave before he gets himself comfortable. Tomorrow things are going to get difficult, but for right now, he's going to pretend that it could stay this way forever; no drugs or suicides or cheating girlfriends or sell-outs or anything else: just them; two young artists doing whatever they can to reach their dreams and always knowing they can lean on each other in the process.

And as he closes his eyes, he's sure that it will be sunny and warm tomorrow. The winter's going to end eventually, and maybe it'll last a little longer than usual, but one day new life is going to come back to the grey, dirty city, and both of them are going to be around to appreciate it.

He'll keep on telling himself this until it's too late, he's sure, but right now it isn't too late. Right now, something's just beginning, and no matter what the ending is, he'll make sure he's by Roger's side when it comes.

After all, what are friends for?

**I feel like I haven't written anything in so long, even though I 'write' every day, so I hope this was satisfactory. The song quote at the beginning comes from the musical **_**Chess, **_**which is another one of my favorite musicals, and I found it rather appropriate for Roger and Mark when I thought about it. **

**Once again, reviews are love, and thanks for reading!!! **


End file.
